Happy Insomniac

3 a.m. Muse

by Charles C. Brooks III

When it's three thirty in the morning,
and you're shaken awake for no good reason,
there's bound to be a poem in there somewhere.
Tip-toeing into my jeans and a T-shirt,
at first I just wanted to move around.
Inspiration wasn't sprinting, it was sputtering.
So I stepped outside to smoke and saw
a crescent moon smiling.
The wind had a whip to it, but not too much.
The silence was startling.
Taken for granted in this age,
but out there on my deck I reveled in it.
Then I figured that was the purpose of my waking.
This Thanksgiving Day was opened
with me firmly planted in Nature.
Back inside, my wife is asleep, so I type these
words lightly. I wouldn't want
my restlessness to become contagious.
But my words have spun
and I bid you good night, normal folk.
I am relaxing again with stars behind my eyelids.
When my fire cools, so does my need to sing.